I’m not a man who deals with emotions. I run a criminal empire, and in this world, feelings are weakness. That’s why I married her. A quiet, distant woman who never speaks. She communicates through a notebook I gave her, telling me everything she can’t say out loud.

She writes her anger, her loneliness, the hurt. I read it, cold and detached. I don’t care what she feels — I just need her to write it down.

One day, after a tense dinner, she hands me the notebook. Her hands are trembling. I flip through the pages.

“I hate how cold you are. How you never smile. How you never feel anything. But you made me your wife. You own me now. I’ll be silent if that’s what you want, but I’m not your property.”

Her words hit harder than I expected. But I don’t react. I can’t.

Days pass, and the notebook becomes her only outlet. More words. More frustration. More emotion I refuse to acknowledge.

Then, one night, I read it:

“I don’t want your money. I don’t want your house. I want you to see me. I’m not invisible. I’m here.”

It shakes me, but I won’t admit it.

The next day, she hands me the notebook. One last note.

“You may think I am just a tool in your game, Lando. But I’m not. I’ll never be.”

I close the notebook. Slowly, I walk to her. I stop a few steps away.

“You think I’m cold because I don't care,” I say, my voice low. “But the truth is, I’m colder than you could ever understand because I do care. And I can’t afford to show it.”